Tout Sweet

by Karen Wheeler

  While he is talking, my eyes wander around the room. Like the rest of the house, it feels lived-in and friendly. And rather touchingly, he has really gone to town on the festive decorations. His Christmas tree is covered in tinsel of many mismatched colours. It is not a good-taste tree, but a lot of effort has gone into it. There are also ceramic angels suspended from the beams of the ceiling and tinsel draped along the shelves and tacked to the walls.

  ‘Sorry I didn’t mention you by name,’ he says as he puts the phone down. ‘But I figure no names, no pack drill.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Better not mention any names,’ he says. ‘And then no one can get into trouble.’

  ‘But we can’t get into trouble anyway. We haven’t done anything wrong,’ I say.

  It is dark by the time we arrive back in Villiers. Jon brings in the logs from his car and stacks them by the side of the wood-burner. I try to light the fire, building a little pyre, as he demonstrated earlier. ‘No, not that piece of wood yet. It’s too big. You have to build it up gradually,’ he says, as I try to shove a large log into the wood-burner. ‘Here, let me do it. It’s probably better if you watch.’ And so, practically hopping from foot to foot with excitement, I watch as Jon lights the fire. With his expert touch, it is soon going strong.

  Jon doesn’t know it but this is a very significant moment. At last Maison Coquelicot has a fire roaring at its heart once again. ‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ I say.

  ‘No thanks. I’ve got to get back to call my girlfriend’ he says, hovering by the door. ‘But thanks again for lunch.’

  ‘Thanks for the logs,’ I say.

  ‘Well, I guess I’ll see you soon,’ he says and heads towards his car in the frosty darkness. I close the front door, turn the lights out – the better to watch the fire – and spend the rest of the evening lying on the sofa, mesmerised by the dancing flames. I feel absurdly happy. Maison Coquelicot has got her fire back; I have real wood, piled up one either side of the fire like in design magazines; and I have spent a full twenty-four hours in Jon’s company. I have eaten dinner, breakfast and lunch with him, and been invited back to his house for coffee. He has a girlfriend but he wants to be friends with me. And I can’t help thinking that my life is going to be so much better with him in it.

  Chapter 19

  Christmas Day

  I am obsessed. Consumed. Mesmerised. Utterly in love… with my wood-burning stove. Let me count the ways in which I love it: the challenge of getting the flames going; the thrill once it takes; and then the satisfaction of feeding it, poking it and rearranging the logs inside, not to mention watching the myriad different ways that a log can burn. I am starting to worry that I might never leave the house again. In the cold days leading up to Christmas, I even take to working downstairs on the sofa in front of the fire, laptop propped up against my knees. Maison Coquelicot has thawed, dropped the frosty facade and revealed herself to be surprisingly warm-hearted. We are now comfortable with each other. Night after night I stay at home sitting by the fire with a glass of full-bodied red. It feels like I have finally created a home.

  It was Mathilde who sorted out my wood-burner problems in the end. Dropping by for a cup of Ricoré, a mix of coffee and chicory beans, she was outraged to find the stove standing on my polished wooden floor rather than the tiled hearth. ‘It is a fire hazard,’ she declared. ‘These artisans, they think they can get away with anything because you are a woman alone. Give me his number. I will call him and get him to come back and do the job properly.’

  I am not sure exactly what Mathilde said to Monsieur Lazare, but it worked. Almost immediately he phoned, and asked when I would like him to come back. ‘Tomorrow morning?’ I suggested, expecting much evasion and procrastination.

  ‘Madame, I will be there at nine a.m.,’ he replied. And to my amazement he was. He came with the correct size collier, or collar, this time, and, better still, it was black so that it matched the back panel. He did the work with good grace, and when he had finished the wood-burner was no longer standing on wooden floorboards but on the tiled fire surround, as it should have been. Afterwards, I braced myself for Monsieur Lazare to bump up the bill for his extra trouble, but when it arrived a week later it was considerably less than originally projected. Bravo, Mathilde!

  Then, a few days ago, I became the proud owner of a woodpile. After waiting in on three separate mornings for Monsieur Tessier, only for him to cancel at the last minute – ‘I’m so sorry, Madame, I know it is annoying’ – he finally arrived by tractor and deposited two cordes of wood at the entrance to my garage. A ‘corde’, incidentally, is a cubic metre of wood – that’s a lot of logs. Even with Claudette and her husband helping, it took nearly two hours to transfer them all to the back of the garage and pile them up neatly. Despite ruining my favourite cashmere cardigan and a pair of suede boots in the process – no, I don’t know what I was thinking of either – it was deeply satisfying to look at the mountain of neatly stacked logs. I was going to relish the rituals of self-sufficiency involved in bringing them in. And for €140 I had enough wood to heat the house for the winter.

  But, as the French would say, I still wasn’t quite out of the auberge yet. To begin with, I could not get the logs to burn. The optimum arrangement, as Jon taught me, was four little scrunched-up pieces of newspaper with a firelighter in the middle, and several small sticks of wood arranged in a precarious pyramid on top so that the air could circulate underneath. This would get the fire going sufficiently to put the first log on top. In theory. The reality was that I spent a lot of time on my knees relighting smouldering sticks of wood and shoving vast quantities of scrunched-up newspapers and noxious paraffin firelighters into the wood-burner. Given the trouble that I go to to avoid toxins in everyday life – buying paraben-free beauty products, organic food and even environmentally friendly detergent – it was ironic to be releasing a toxic mélange of chemicals into my sitting room on a nightly basis.

  For there are certain unattractive truths about log fires that only become apparent when you have one. The first is the amount of paraphernalia involved. In magazine pictures, log fires are invariably shown with a neat, symmetrical, very photogenic stack of logs on either side. What you don’t see is all the other stuff that’s required; the giant matches, boxes of firelighters, piles of old newspapers and three different sizes of logs as well as the kindling (very messy and unphotogenic), needed to get the thing going. You also need a large dustpan and brush on standby and a pair of fire tongs for poking the fire and moving the burning logs around. A log fire, let me tell you, is very hard work. And that’s before you get to clean out the ashes on a daily basis, sweeping up the dust – which gets everywhere – and scrubbing off the soot from the glass frontage. On the bright side, at least I won’t be developing bingo wings any time soon. My lungs, however, are definitely feeling the strain. In the few days that the wood-burner has been up and running, I have developed a sore throat, a dry cough and a permanent headache. I have also noticed that the longer the stove burns the more it releases a very sickly, toxic smell. And then I spot the scorch marks on the panels above the fire surround and realise why: the white gloss paint (with which Alain, my decorator, had painted the entire sitting room, including the fireplace) is hot and tacky to the touch and is releasing a warm soup of toxic, volatile vapours into the sitting room.

  Since renovating the house I have discovered that one step forward nearly always means two steps back. I so wanted the wood-burner to be working in time for Christmas Day, as I have invited Miranda, Elinor and Desmond for lunch – having checked beforehand that Miranda and Elinor are back on speaking terms – and I want them to be able to eat it without incurring lung damage. The only solution is to remove the gloss paint and replace it with paint that can withstand high temperatures. I call Pluriservices in Civray, an organisation of unemployed artisans who are available for hire by the hour.

  Astonish
ingly, given that it is so close to Christmas, they agree to dispatch un bricoleur (handyman) the following day. I am glad to hear it is Gwen, a French guy who previously put up some shelves for me, and who speaks English with a Brummie accent having lived in Birmingham for eight years. He disconnects the wood-burner and then applies paint stripper to the painted panel and slowly the white gloss disappears. He then sprays on matt black, fireproof paint made to withstand temperatures of up to 600 degrees. Et voilà. Hopefully, that should be the end of my wood-burner woes. I have also discovered some ‘natural’ firelighters made from wood chippings. They do not smell as toxic as the paraffin kind, but unfortunately they are not as effective either. It takes about half a box and a week’s supply of newspapers to produce just a few modest flames.

  ‘Your logs are too big,’ says Jon when he drops by unannounced.

  ‘How can they be? I’ve got three different sizes and kindling.’

  ‘Well, you need some smaller ones to get it going. You have to build it up gradually.’

  The following evening, he arrives with a box of finely chopped wood and a mini-axe, thoughtfully gift-wrapped and tied with ribbon.

  ‘I really appreciate the gesture,’ I say, choosing my words carefully. ‘And it is a very thoughtful present. But I don’t think I can have an axe in the house.’

  ‘Why?’ says Jon, looking puzzled.

  I tell him that I think it is too unlucky/scary to have an axe lying around but the (devious) truth is that I have absolutely no intention of chopping up logs as I am hoping that he will do it for me.

  ‘Well, have a good Christmas,’ says Jon, as he leaves, taking his axe with him. He is going to Bordeaux tomorrow to pick Jennie up from the airport.

  Since this is the first Christmas I have hosted in my new home, I want it to be perfect. I drive 40 kilometres to the turkey farm in order to pick up the black turkey I have ordered. (Black turkeys, apparently, taste better.) In London, I used to buy a turkey from Lidgates, the organic, stratospherically expensive butcher in Holland Park. This year’s turkey is also organic, but bought directly from the farm it costs less than a third of the price.

  I am worried that I will see turkeys running around the farmyard, or worse, be made to choose one and have it killed before my eyes. Fortunately, the turkey is handed over in a plastic bag. I have already asked Miranda about innards and such, since she bought her turkey here last year. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘That will all have been dealt with and its head will have been chopped off.’ Welcome news, as I am very squeamish about poultry. I don’t even like looking at the pale, goose-pimpled turkey flesh, let alone putting my hand inside to stuff one or remove giblets.

  And so, on Christmas Eve, wood-burner installed, Christmas lights twinkling and turkey in the fridge – along with organic vegetables, mince pies, chocolates and Christmas pudding ferried back from the UK on the Eurostar on a recent visit – I am all set. I have even decorated the front door with the holly from the Christmas market and hung up mistletoe above all available door frames. Et voilà. With all the accoutrements of a traditional rustic Christmas in place, I pour myself a large, congratulatory glass of red wine and am about to flick through Delia’s Christmas cookbook – she might not be fashionable but she’s big on organisation – when the phone rings. It’s Miranda. ‘Hello, darling girl. Are we all set for tomorrow?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You’ve got the turkey?’

  ‘It’s in the fridge.’

  ‘You mean you haven’t taken it out of the fridge yet?’

  ‘No. Should I have?’

  ‘Yes, it’s supposed to stand in the baking tray overnight. Didn’t you know that?’

  ‘No. I didn’t.’

  After I put the phone down, I take the bird out of the fridge, but as I unwrap it I receive a nasty shock – in the form of a pair of beady eyes, a hairy neck and a beak. Merde! The bird still has its head attached! Feeling ill, I shove it back in the plastic bag and call Miranda.

  ‘The turkey’s head is still attached.’

  ‘Good grief! It hasn’t been chopped off?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But I bought my turkey there last year and all that was dealt with.’

  ‘Well my turkey still has its head attached.’

  ‘Darling girl, you’re going to have to be brave and chop it off. Have you got a meat cleaver?’

  ‘No. And even if I did, I’m far too squeamish to do it’

  ‘I know! What about Jon? His father was a gamekeeper. He’ll know what to do. Shall I give him a call?’

  ‘Would you?’ I say, wanting to give Miranda a hug. ‘That’s a really good idea.’

  ‘Leave it to me. I’ll be back in touch before you’re very much older.’

  Five minutes later the phone rings again. It is Jon.

  ‘Hi,’ he says. ‘I hear you’ve got a problem. Do you want me to come over and sort it out?’

  Yes. PLEASE! YES!

  ‘No, don’t be silly. I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  I think to myself, Please come over now! but find myself saying instead, ‘I’m sure you’ve got better things to do on Christmas Eve than drive 12 kilometres to chop a turkey’s head off.’

  ‘We’re just at home. I could come over now.’

  ‘No, honestly, it’s fine. But perhaps you could tell me how to do it.’ He starts to describe what I already know: sawing through it with a sharp knife, et cetera. All I can think is, IDIOT! You should have let him come and do that for you!

  ‘Well, have a nice Christmas then,’ he says.

  ‘You too.’

  I toy briefly with the idea of calling Dylan, who is only around the corner, and asking him to do it, but he’s a strict vegetarian, so it would be inappropriate. Instead, I pour myself another glass of wine and decide to get up early tomorrow and deal with the problem then.

  At 10.30 a.m. I am woken from a deep sleep by a phone call. It’s Elinor. ‘Just checking you were up and slaving away in the kitchen,’ she says cheerily.

  ‘Oh yes, I certainly am,’ I say, trying to hide a voice still heavy with sleep and give the impression that I have been up chopping vegetables for hours.

  ‘Good. We’ll see you round about one o’clock then. We’re picking Miranda up en route.’

  Merde! The turkey with its spooky beak and eyes is waiting for me downstairs in the kitchen. And merde again, for according to Delia’s Christmas schedule, it should be in the oven by now. I’ve got two and a half hours to have a shower, get dressed, lay the table and prepare Christmas lunch from scratch. If only I’d done what Delia had suggested and peeled the potatoes and parsnips last night.

  Do the thing that you least want to do. Now! Repeating one of the many motivational mantras taught to me by Dylan, I go down to the kitchen to confront the task in hand. Gingerly, I peel back the plastic bag and recoil instantly at the dead eyes staring at me. I run back upstairs and pick up the phone. Jon answers after just a few rings.

  ‘JonhappyChristmasisKarenIhopeI’mnotinterruptinganything.’ The words come out in breathless rush. There is silence on the other end of the phone.

  ‘It’s just that… you know last night, you offered to come over and chop my turkey’s head off?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I was wondering if you would like to come over for a Christmas drink this morning and do it?’

  There is a pause. ‘I suppose I could.’

  ‘Are you sure? I really don’t want to put you out or anything.’

  ‘No, it’s OK. But we’re just in the middle of something at the moment.’

  Merde! Merde! Merde! I put the phone down feeling like an idiot. Spurred on by an adrenalin rush of embarrassment, I go down to the kitchen, find a carving knife, don thick rubber gloves and, with grim determinatio
n, hack the turkey’s head off. It’s pink and long and snake-like, with a hard bone in the middle. I fling it in the bin, rush upstairs and phone Jon again. This time, his girlfriend answers. She doesn’t bother with any niceties such as ‘Happy Christmas’ or even ‘Hi’. Instead, she just says: ‘I’ll get Jon for you.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say, breathless. ‘I’m just calling to say: problem dealt with. I just did it myself.’

  There is silence on the other end of the phone.

  ‘But why don’t you come over for a drink anyway?’ I say.

  I’m confident that they won’t. I figure his girlfriend won’t even pass on the message. But not long after I have put the turkey in the oven, and just as I am about to start grappling with the vegetables, the doorbell rings. Jon and his girlfriend are standing on the doorstep. ‘We thought we’d see how you were getting on,’ he says. ‘It sounded like you needed help.’ Jennie hovers behind him, looking like she has been dragged along under duress. She is wearing jeans and what looks like a man’s oversized grey sweater. ‘So where is this turkey then?’ she asks, after Jon has introduced us. ‘You need to turn it over,’ she says crisply when I opened the oven door to show them. ‘And you should put some foil around it, so that the steam can help it to cook. Here, I’ll do it.’

  Her manner is brisk and efficient. I can only watch in awe. ‘The reason why the head was left on,’ she says, ‘is that the French like to use it as a decorative table piece.’

  ‘Oh, how horrible,’ I say.

  ‘You haven’t peeled the vegetables?’ she says, surveying the disarray in the kitchen. ‘Most people do that the night before.’

  ‘Not yet,’ I say, hugely annoyed with myself. By now the log fire should be lit, the potatoes should be in the oven and the table should be laid with festive candles and Christmas crackers. Instead it is covered with potato peelings and prawn shells.